The Foster-Sisters

IF one thought anything of omens (which I do not in general, though I confess I would rather not see the new moon through glass) I might think it a bad one that my first distinct recollection is of a fall. It happened in this wise: I was sitting on the edge of the great fountain basin, eating a bit of spice cake, and watching some vernons—so they call the little wild canaries in that part of the world—which were flying in and out of the great ivy on the north wall, where I suppose they had young ones. In my interest in the birds, I forgot that my perch was both narrow and slippery. I leaned backward, the better to obtain a view of the bird's nest, which I could but just see, and so doing I lost my balance, and down I went into the water.

Luckily for me, there was help at hand, for the basin was deep and I was small. Mother Prudentia was just coming for water, and pulled me out before I had time to scream more than once. If I had seen her so near, I should not have been sitting there, for the thing was strictly forbidden. But she pulled me out and carried me to the dormitory, where I was quickly undressed and well scolded at the same time, and popped into bed.